


I Can Be That Part of You (I’ll Try My Best)

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: Son of a Spider [10]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, F/M, Family, Family of Choice, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Kid Clint Barton, Parent Clint Barton, Parent Natasha Romanov, Past Dysfunctional Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7243510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family didn’t so much happen to Clint as sneak up behind him with a baseball bat and shout ‘SURPRISE’ before clobbering him over the head and dragging him into the bushes never to be seen again. </p>
<p>Or something.  </p>
<p>Clint never thought he’d get here, but it turns out ‘here’ is pretty damn good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Be That Part of You (I’ll Try My Best)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Father's Day everyone. In honor of the occasion, here's the Clint-Barton-centric fic I've been meaning to write for a while.
> 
> Warning, I used Clint's comic canon family background here, which means that Clint's alcoholic/abusive father is mentioned. There is nothing graphic, but it is brought up. 
> 
> Also, while most of this series can kind of stand alone, this one only makes sense in context with 'Come on Home' and 'If You Don't Aim for the Center (it's a waste of the art)'. 
> 
> As always, a BIG thank-you to everyone who has read, kudosed, subscribed, bookmarked or commented on this series. You guys are the absolute best.

**Childhood - Iowa**

            The way Clint figured, you become your parents, you become their opposite, or you become them, but a more successful version of them. Yeah, it’s kind of cynical but in a tiny no-name town lost in the cornfields it’s what you see every day.

            And when you can’t hear because your eardrums are busted up and dodgy on a good day, you see _a lot_.

            Clint’s dad? A drunk. Clint didn’t know what he did for a living. Maybe he was a farmer. Or worked at the factory. That seemed to be what all the other kids’ dads did – except for Jimmy, whose dad managed the grocery store (everyone said Jimmy’s dad stole from the till but no one cared enough to try to get him arrested – and Clint knew he didn’t actually steal from the till, he took home stuff from the electronics section and sold it on eBay. Clint saw all kinds of things).

Sometimes Clint daydreamed about turning Jimmy’s dad in, not because he wanted Jimmy’s dad to get in trouble, but because if he got arrested then no one would be talking about the Bartons. And all people ever seemed to do was talk about the Bartons. Mom would take him and his brother Barney to get their hair cut and all the other ladies in the salon would cut glances in their direction, shooting each other significant looks around their hair-dryers. Clint could feel their sharp little eyes on him, cataloguing his bruises and scrapes. It made him want to hide. Run away to somewhere high up, so high no one could touch him – somewhere he could perch and watch them without having to worry about anyone’s eyes or hands or words heavy on his shoulders.

            Clint didn’t know why his dad drank. Maybe he didn’t have a reason – maybe he just did it. Maybe his dad’s dad drank too and his granddad before him and maybe it just went on an on back into the darkness before time or Jim Beam. Clint was too little to know that kind of stuff. Maybe Barney knew, but Clint only asked his brother once, after the car accident, when they were in their fifth foster home, before the circus. Barney had cussed him out good for that one, taken a swing at him too and they’d fought, with hard little punches and sharp little kicks, rolling in the dirt and trying to – to hurt, to make something in a hard, cold, empty world _yield._

            They’d pulled away from each other bloody and bruised and Barney had spat a blob of red phlegm into the dirt, grumbling, “Bit my tongue. You’re a mean little bastard.”

            “Your mean little bastard. You’re stuck with me,” Clint had said mulishly, words meant to needle, to poke at his brother who seemed to be turning to stone or maybe steel in front of him, turning into something he didn’t know anymore.

            “Yeah,” Barney had grumbled, “You’re stuck with me too,” but it sounded a little too bitter and Clint didn’t try asking for any more affection from his older brother.

            Barney still didn’t answer the question.

            Barney had been taking pulls from their dad’s whiskey when he wasn’t looking since he was twelve.

            The way Clint figured, they didn’t have much of a chance.

**Childhood – the circus**

            The Swordsman was probably the best dad Clint had ever had. He gave him gifts (well, one gift, the knife was given, but technically Clint stole the bow), he taught him how to shoot and put up tents and how to talk the tigers into letting him pet them. He stood up for them. Vouched for them to the bearded lady. Gave them a home.

            He was also a thief and a liar and a criminal.

            A dangerous man, violent, just like Clint’s dad. Just this time, the violence wasn’t aimed at Clint and Barney.

            That didn’t make it okay. There were plenty of people more innocent than Clint.

            He used people. He used Barney.

            He wasn’t going to use Clint.

            So Clint left, left Barney behind.

            “It’s money, Clint. It’s just a job.”

            “Just a job that hurts people!”

            “Them or me, Clint? I’m gonna pick me.”

            “Screw you, Barney.”

            “Yeah, whatever, you stupid little kid.”

**Teens – Everywhere, nowhere, hell, Clint doesn’t know**

            “No, you don’t get it,” Clint was trying to explain this to the bartender but it didn’t seem to be coming through to her, “You don’t get it,” he reaffirmed this opinion. Truth? Opinion? Fuck, Clint doesn’t know. Maybe he should nap on the bar. It looked comfy. A little sticky and gross but Clint could work with that.

            “Yeah, honey, what don’t I get?” The bartender was being really, really patient with him. Clint appreciated that. He appreciated her. He told her as much.

            She just shook her head, “You’re welcome, honey. I think you’ve had enough.”

            “Nah,” Clint shook his head and the world swam around him, the bar’s neon signs spinning like a demented merry-go-round.

            “Yeah, let’s just have some water now, okay?” She handed him some kind of drink that was _really refreshing and delicious_ and clear and maybe it was vodka? That would make sense, he was in a bar. Bars had vodka.

            He shared this train of thought with her too and she shook her head, “Drink your water, kid.”

            “Okie-dokie,” he agreed easily, downing the rest in a single go, “Now, here’s what you don’t get.”

            “Oh boy,” she muttered, but seemed ready to listen anyway, which was nice of her.

            “You don’t get…” he trailed off, groping for his train of thought. “Oh, okay. So I’m gonna become my dad, right? Or, like, a better version of him, maybe. Or just like, total opposite. So I figure two outta the three options end in me being that guy and he was a _total asshole_ , and if I’m gonna be an asshole, a drunk asshole, if it’s like, my great big fat _destiny_ or something? I should probably do one thing right. No kids. Not gonna have ‘em. Cuz that’s where the old man fucked up. You can be as fucked up as you want without hurting anyone, but once you’ve got kids, you’d better not hurt them. You’d better not – ” Clint drooped, then rallied, “you’d better not harm a fucking _hair_ on their precious, little,” he was slurring now, he was pretty sure, “heads. No harm. And if it’s my destiny to be an asshole, I’d better not have kids. It’s like a precautionary measure. I think it’s _brilliant._ I’m a genius.” He blinked groggily at her, “You know what? I’m a genius and I’m totally gonna hit that bullseye – ” He pointed at the dart board across the bar, swaying on his barstool, “ – every single time.”

            He scooped up all the darts left on the bar, flung them one by methodical one at the board, hitting dead center every single time. He beamed at the bartender, proud of his handiwork – and promptly fell off the barstool.

 

**Teens – SHIELD**

            “Why the fuck are you in my office, Agent Barton?” Nick Fury’s single eye glowered at Clint. Clint slouched insouciantly in Fury’s swivel chair. It was really freaking comfortable.

            “Just thought I’d pop in and, have a little chat with the boss-man.”

            “Agent.”

            “Yes, Dad?”

            “Get the fuck out of my chair.”

            “Now that is not the tone of voice I’d expect from a man who wants a nice tie on Father’s Day.”

            “Get out of my chair, Agent, or I’m calling Phil in to deal with your crazy shit.”

            Clint slouched deeper into the chair (so comfy, why didn’t he have a chair this comfy at _his_ desk?) and spun in a happy little circle. “Can you actually manage a sentence without swearing? I’m curious.”

            Nick Fury marched over, grabbed the back of the chair and unceremoniously dumped Clint on the floor.

            “Aw, floor, no,” Clint mumbled into the industrial carpet, staggering to his feet.

            Fury, resettled in his chair and looking as smug as a perpetually-glaring one-eyed man could, asked with a tone of great (forced) patience, “What did you want, Barton?”

            “Uh. Mostly to sit in the chair. I was in the vents and thought I’d drop in. Give it a test-sit.”

            “ _Test-sit_.”

            “Uh, yeah. I’m thinking of entering it in the office chair derby next week – ”

            “Get out of my office, Agent.”

            Clint backed away, calling over his shoulder, “You should consider it, boss-man, you don’t even really have to do anything other than sit in your chair and propel it with your feet. Faster racer wins. Knocking each other off-course it totally legal, too.”

            “ _Get out_.”

            Clint closed the door cackling as Fury muttered “He’s just testing his limits, he’s just testing his limits, Phil and Maria said I couldn’t kill him…just testing his limits my ass.”

            So yeah, maybe Clint was just lonely. Maybe he just wanted company. It’s not like it was Barney’s birthday today or anything. It’s not like his chest felt a little emptier when he looked at the calendar. It’s not like he wanted someone to glower and curse at him and mean well.

            It’s not like…

            It’s just like.

            And hey, next father’s day Nick Fury gets an _awesome_ purple tie and Clint gets a really grumpy look he can treasure forever. So there’s that.

 

**Adulthood – New York City**

The kid was going to get himself killed. What was he even _doing_ out here? It was the middle of the night and here’s this middle-schooler in a black turtleneck scaling buildings to…what? Harass Clint?

            Clint didn’t get it.

            He found himself watching the kid out of the corner of his eye. He found himself monitoring the kid’s movements, the way he holds himself. Every shadow on that pale little face could be a bruise, Clint’s so paranoid. Because what sane kid from a good, safe home sneaks out in the middle of the night to follow around some wacko with a bow and arrows?

            But _there aren’t any bruises._ And the kid brought him soup – homemade and so much better than anything Clint’s had maybe ever. They shared it, eating it cold out of a tupperware container on an anonymous rooftop in New York City.

            Once, _once_ , and Clint will _never_ tell the kid this happened, because the little guy takes his self-appointed neighborhood watch duty so seriously, the kid dozed off. It had been over a week into Clint’s observation of the Black Widow’s apartment and the kid had already been sick (that was terrifying, one night and the kid wasn’t there to greet him and Clint thought ‘okay, maybe he finally got sick of this stuff – kids get bored easily, right?’ two nights and Clint was starting to spin stories in his head, where the kid could have ended up, what could have happened to him, and none of them had happy endings) and gotten better. So this wasn’t illness, just simple exhaustion. Just a half hour where the kid’s constant vigilance relaxed and he dozed off. He leaned against Clint, soft and small and trusting.

            It shook something loose in Clint’s core. Something fierce and stubborn and warm.

            _Nothing_ was going to touch this kid. Not ever, not as long as Clint could draw breath and draw a bow (and weren’t those kind of the same thing).

            Clint would protect him. Clint could do that. For the first time, Clint thought that yeah, maybe he really could protect someone. Not because Clint had changed, had become anything special or new, but simply because he _had_ to.

            And then later the Black Widow was dropping on him like a ton of highly-trained-deadly-ninja-badass bricks and Clint was regretting _all_ of his life choices _ever_.

            Things got complicated from there, but later, in the Bla- _Natasha_ ’s apartment, eating ice cream and peas in the middle of the night, straight from the container, something still felt good and _right_.

            Years later Matt would say they tricked Clint into joining their family and maybe that was right, in a way. But Clint knew, when he sat there, eating crappy ice cream and watching the softest, kindest, most generous and improbable relationship he’d ever witnessed, he realized that he wanted this. He _needed_ this. Because here he could _breathe._ Here he wasn’t being _observed_ like a time bomb or a curiosity. He was…just a person, just a person here in this moment. And yeah, maybe the baby ninja and his ex-assassin mom were curiosities and time bombs like him, but at least they were in the exhibit together.

 

**Adulthood – Upstate New York**

            Clint would sometimes ‘borrow’ a SHIELD car and pick up Matt at school on a Friday afternoon. Matt would toss his backpack in the back, tuck his cane under the seat, and close the passenger side door. They’d drive upstate, talking about nothing, until they reached the city limits and were out and away. Then they’d floor it and speed down country roads with the windows rolled down, the wind turning everything into a roaring blur.

            Matt said the motion, the car all around him, the thunder of the wind beyond the windows smeared his senses, made the world soft and vague and bearable for a while. Clint got that, Clint liked the freedom of motion, of the feeling that you’re going somewhere but actually _getting_ there isn’t important.

            They’d drive until the day darkened around them and Natasha called from whatever nearby bed and breakfast she’d picked out for them (because of course she’d track their route back at SHEILD and make reservations accordingly, she was like that) and Clint and Matt would stagger into the parking lot, jelly-legged from hours of driving, straight into Natasha’s waiting arms.

 

**Adulthood – Everywhere, nowhere, wherever they’re supposed to be**

            He traced her face with careful hands – “I love you.”

            …

            She blasted a hostile off his tail in some no man’s land warzone that wouldn’t even make the news – “I love you.”

            …

            He was singing along to the Dixie Chicks on the kitchen radio while she chopped carrots for the soup on the stove, pausing every now and then to flick a carrot peel at his face while he laughed and stirred the broth – “I love you.”

            …

            He was bleeding and every nerve was on fire but that didn’t matter because he was covering her blind spot while she crashed a jeep through Budapest – “I love you.”

            …

            She was kissing him slow and deep like they had all the time in the world – “I love you.”

            …

            They were supposed to be in and out in under and hour and it had been two and where the fuck was their backup? – “I love you.”

            …

            Clint and Natasha staggered home, leaning on each other for support, tripping and tipping and sliding forward like a three-legged race with no winners, but no losers either, until they collapsed on the couch in messy heap – “I love you, we’re home.”

            And the words didn’t need to be said, but Clint said them anyway and sometimes he’d catch Natasha saying them too, a whisper, a ghost of sound. Because love makes you childish.

 

**Adulthood – New York City**

            The girl was pointing a bow and arrow at him. Clint was kind of irrationally insulted. Mostly confused, but there was a little hint of affront there in the back of his mind. It didn’t really occur to him to be scared because, well, when did it _ever_ occur to him to be scared?

            “Seriously? This is what we’re going with? Dammit, I just wanted to make a sandwich and surprise my kid. Now I’ve got adolescents menacing me with my own weapons,” he glanced up at the ceiling, as if confronting a higher power, “Universe. No. Bad idea.”

            The girl clenched her jaw but did not shift her stance. Hey, she actually looked like she might know what she’s doing. Great.

            Clint sighed and did what he probably should have done in the first place. “Hey, you just chill with the menacing, I’m gonna call the kid and clear this up. Just, y’know, hang out for a second.” He finished fumbling in his pockets for his phone and clicked over to Matt’s contact information.

            “Matthew Barton-Romanov-Murdock, why is there a teenage girl menacing me with a bow and arrow?”

 

**Adulthood – New York City**

            Clint’s not sure what he would have done if Matt had died, if he and Kate hadn’t gotten there in time. He can’t imagine it, there’s some kind of block in his brain. He can barely remember bringing the kid into medical or the waiting after. A handful of moments, of sensations stand out like pinpricks of searing sunlight in the middle of a foggy day, burning him from the inside out. Blood, so much blood. On him, on Kate, on Matt. Kate’s face, tight and so pale her eyebrows stood out sharp and black and almost fake against her skin – like they’d been drawn on her face with a Sharpie. His knuckles, aching but not aching hard enough, not punished enough from where he’d punched the wall.

            God, the kid had better be okay.

            And he was, but Clint had had to sit down anyway when they told him the news, his knees were shaking so hard.

            That was his son, his _son_. It didn’t matter if he was never ‘dad’, it didn’t matter. That was his kid. And he was going to be okay.

 

**Adulthood – New York City**

            Kate’s bio-dad was a _dick_. Clint hated him on principle. He’d never met the guy, but he’d seen enough in Kate’s careful phrasing, artfully worded silences. Clint? He didn’t get it. He didn’t get how a guy who literally has everything he could ever want couldn’t bother to give a shit about the person he helped create. If you make something, it’s your job to take care of it, at least in the world according to Clint Barton.

            But somehow this guy who’d managed to produce _Kate Fucking Bishop_ had failed to get the memo about parenting requiring little things like _love_ and _effort_.

            Clint started the Hawkeye thing for Katie-Kate. Because Kate wasn’t like Matt, legally there was nothing tying her to their patchwork quilt of a family. She didn’t even call Natasha ‘mom’ when she wasn’t playing around. She rationed out her terms of endearment as if she didn’t want to overburden them and scare them off. As if she was afraid they’d get spooked by her need for affection and attention and drop her.

            So he started calling her ‘Hawkeye’ while they were out on patrol. And he got her a purple coffee mug with a big pink-purple H on the outside and a purple-pink target printed on the bottom. And for Halloween they both wore M*A*S*H t-shirts and dog tags and marathoned old episodes to expose Natasha and Matt to the beauty of old sitcoms and ‘Hawkeye’ Pierce.

 

**Adulthood – New York**

            After, after the Battle of New York or what-the-fuck-ever the news pundits were calling it now, Clint found himself shaking apart in Natasha’s arms.

            “I hurt you, I hurt you, I hurt you,” he didn’t know how many times he’d said the words, but his throat felt raw with them.

            And she tightened her arms around him and kissed him silent, twisting them together in their bed until they were almost like one person with two heartbeats.

            “It wasn’t you,” she whispered into the dark and the silence later, “It wasn’t you.”

            He just buried his face in her hair and wondered how he could still have this.

            Her nails scraped against his scalp, demanding his attention, “You are not your father,” she said, staring into his eyes, the NYC light pollution leaking through their blinds turning her eyes silver-grey in the darkness. “I have never been afraid of you. Not once. Our children are safe and they love you. I am safe. I am _here_ ,” her eyes were asking him to understand, near-demanding it, “I love you,” she said and it was the first time she’d managed to say it straight out like that.

            He couldn’t help but chuckle, “This is a first, Tasha.”

            “Don’t get used to it,” she gave him a look and curled closer.

            “Too late.”

            “You’re terrible.”

            “I’m home.”

            “Yes. Stay.”

            “Love you, Tasha.”

            “I know.”

            That made him laugh again; the broken pieces in his chest finally beginning to slot back together.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the song 'Prove You Wrong' by He Is We. 
> 
> Moving on from here I have vague plans for this universe including a fic featuring Claire and Karen as well as another one set in the aftermath of the events of 'Captain America: Winter Soldier' in which Bucky meets Matt and things explode. 
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who reads this series, your support means so much to me!


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